


Piety

by heliocentrics



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Porn with a lil Plot, Praise Kink, face riding, i had to break out my art history knowledge for this bitch, i stan Two Dieties, met gala au, sub!Ben
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 05:44:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14710217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heliocentrics/pseuds/heliocentrics
Summary: “I want nothing more… than to make you happy. Than to please you.” His voice is muffled, thick with desire, within the folds of her gown.The fingers of her empty hand rest on his chin, wrapping around his jawline, lifting his face up to meet her gaze. “Then please me.”





	Piety

**Author's Note:**

> Uploaded this a while ago on [tumblr](https://ahsokatvno.tumblr.com/post/173846641543/katie-did-i-hear-that-youre) (shoutout to abby kybergold for the prompt!) but never posted it here so here ya go. Also big big shoutout to nole for this amazing [edit](https://kyluminous.tumblr.com/post/174060628698/and-the-press-of-course-had-always-jumped-at-the) inspired by the fic!! I love and appreciate you girl.

“How much longer will this take?” He can’t help but mumble, checking his watch as a stylist runs a hand through his hair.

“The designer’s almost done with Rey,” the stylist murmurs, attempting to placate him. “Let’s pin the cape on now, hm?”

“Hm.” It’s more a grunt than any sign of assent.

Once the final pins are in place, a knock on the door breaks both Ben and the stylist from their work. Rey’s designer is waiting for them. “We’re ready when you are.”

“Meet you in the lobby.” Ben’s stylist echoes back. “Ready?”

All Ben can do is sigh.

But when he meets her in the hallway, she looks _holy_.

Her bodice is stitched almost entirely with overlapping crimson thread, shining and catching the light. Rich skirts of heavy cloth-of-gold, overlaid with an airy layer of pure white tulle, beaded here and there, reach past her feet and end in a delicate train behind her. Her hair is pulled back and adorned with a golden spired halo in the front, and rests in easy waves across both her shoulders. Her chest is open, and in the center of it lies a golden cross on a golden chain.

He breathes out in one short exhale. “You look – amazing.” It’s a terrible word to use; _amazing_ doesn’t even begin to cover it.

She mocks a twirl. “Oh, do I?” Her grin, behind a swath of plum lipstick, almost makes him laugh. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

He looks down at his own ensemble, as if forgetting he had been wearing anything at all. A jet black turtleneck, overlaid by a dark blazer embroidered with golden flourishes, is finished with that blood-colored cape, beaded and stitched a million different ways, with a golden-threaded cross dominating its center. “When you’re the son of the gala’s co-chair, you dress on theme.”

She _does_ look stunning, though, he thinks, as they walk into the elevator; his mother had assigned them personal appointments from at least three different A-list designers in order to construct their outfits, and the work had paid off.

Ben, however, couldn’t count the number of times he would have preferred to skip the gala altogether. There had been a few instances where he had managed to get away with it, citing work or illness or anything he could come up with. Unfortunately, for most of his mother’s professional history with the museum and its foundation, he had been all but forced to go. And the press, of course, had always jumped at the chance to grab a photo and a quick interview with one of the most notorious members of the country’s political scene.

He nearly scowled, seething at the thought, before remembering Rey was next to him. _No._ Tonight’s going to be a good night, he promised her that; they’ll walk the carpet and talk to the right people and then go home and order takeout and watch movies to celebrate a job well done.

* * *

 

“Let’s get out of here.”

His voice is just a whisper, his nose pressing lightly against the shell of her ear, just as it had for the cameras. She lifts her head from the presentation on the museum’s main steps, where a handful of costumed acolytes are chanting a procession, to meet his gaze, an eyebrow raised. “What are you implying?”

“I think you know.” His arm moves from around her side, keeping her close to him, to clasp her hand in his. “Come on. The museum’s totally deserted.”

“Are you kidding? All of high society is here.” She looks around from their position, situated towards the front of the balcony of the museum’s second floor, as if to make a point, and it nearly hits home; they are surrounded by people, many of whom she knows Ben can recognize.

Ben smirks, a look so alien to Rey she nearly starts. “Exactly. They’re all _here_ , in the main hall. Which means…”

A few moments later the pair of them are weaving in and out of the crowd, back towards the doors leading to other sections of the museum, whispering hushed apologies to the other patrons of the event. They meet a security guard at one of the first doors they can find, attempting to keep people in the main reception hall. Ben only has to mention his name in the same sentence as his mother’s, and the guards nervously step aside, granting them both access, specifically, to the Renaissance wing.

At first they’re running through the halls, hushed giggles floating from her mouth, her heels clicking on the polished marble floors as they dash through rooms devoid of people and lined with art. Then she starts catching some of the paintings and sculptures out of the corner of her eye, and she _has_ to slow down, even for just a moment, to look, really _look_ , because it is gorgeous, now that it’s caught her eye.

Ben, of course, stops to stroll with her, dutifully following behind even though she knows he’s probably walked these halls a million times before. Soon every painting is captivating her attention, drawing her in, slowing her pace more and more. She recognizes next to none of them, but still they fascinate her – the colors, the subjects, all of it.

Eventually, Rey stops in front of one piece, at the center of the room’s left wall. She lifts a finger to point. “I know this one.”

Ben stops next to her, just half a step behind. “ _The Death of Socrates_. It’s a David – one of the most prominent neo-classicalists of the French Renaissance.” He rattles off the history of the painting with a restrained austerity.

“The bearded guy, in the center – that’s Socrates?” Rey asks, glancing over for Ben’s confirmation.

He nods diligently. “Sentenced to death by the Athenians for impiety to the gods, by poison. Initially, they had proposed sparing his life if he agreed to renounce his teachings, but he refused, sticking true to his precepts until his dying breath.”

Rey tilts her head. “To sacrifice your life, for the sake of your own philosophy…” She shrugs. “I respect it. But can’t imagine doing it.”

“Of course not.” He sidles up next to her, pressing his lips to her temple. “You’re a survivor.”

He feels her smile against him. “Oh?”

“Yes.” His arm snakes around her then, fingers resting just below her ribs, pulling her closer to him until his side is molded to hers.

They’re like two pieces of a puzzle, physically and emotionally, fitting together in just the right places.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers against her, his hand sliding down.

She scoffs, but it’s half hearted, and before she can protest, he shushes her. “You are. The gown is, too, but… it’s only beautiful because you’re in it.”

She glances up at him through her lashes, expecting him to be smirking again, but his face, devoid of any mirth, shows her only adoration. After a beat, she decides to stoke that fire.

“Keep talking about how beautiful I am.”

His voice is getting softer, the more she’s folded into him, collapsing his arms around her body as they walk together and away. “You’re more than beautiful. You’re… you’re ethereal.”

She uncurls herself from his grasp, leaving only their hands still touching, as she entwines his fingers with hers and leads him, like prophet and disciple, to the long, flat sofa in the middle of the gallery. “Keep talking.”

“I feel like… I’m in a dream when I’m with you. Like nothing else is real.” His eyes are wide, unflinching from her own gaze, as she takes a dainty seat on the edge of the black leather. He collapses to his knees without question, without command, as if it’s second nature for him to follow her every move.

Their hands still touch, fingers still intertwined, as Ben presses his forehead to her knee, their grasp resting just above the crown of his head. Rey takes a moment to let him kneel there, venerating her.

“I want nothing more… than to make you happy. Than to please you.” His voice is muffled, thick with desire, within the folds of her gown.

The fingers of her empty hand rest on his chin, wrapping around his jawline, lifting his face up to meet her gaze. “Then please me.”

* * *

He makes quick work of her bidding, hands hiking up her skirts and wrapping around her calves, touching as much of her as he can. She parts her legs for him, heels clacking on the marble floor as she moves, allowing him access to her sex.

He doesn’t hesitate, ducking underneath the bunched-up layers of her gown to press kisses to her knees, her thighs, working his way up to her clit. He can hear her humming, and gasping, the closer he gets, and the thought makes his cock twitch.

She _is_ ethereal, he surmises. It might just be the champagne he’s had, or the way she looks in her ensemble, but he swears that she glows underneath his touch. It’s as if the heavens have opened up and blessed him with this wisp of a woman, powerful and fragile all at once. If God exists, perhaps He’s made it his mission to keep this girl safe, alive, so that she could make her way to him.

But it wasn’t God who kept her safe, was it? A thousand different stories she’s told him, of growing up in foster homes, on the streets, living underfoot and under belt, flash through his head at once. Hiding bruises as she tucks stolen packets of bread into her pockets, living check to check, job to job, keeping herself alive by any means necessary, until she stumbled into his life.

She kept _herself_ safe. She is her own goddess. And now, he worships Her.

His tongue circles the bead of nerves above her cunt, relishing every shudder she gives to him. Her fingers, tangled in his hair, is a blessing, a gift, and he reaches up and around to steady her, keeping her still while he licks and sucks.

“Slower.” Her voice is quiet, almost a gasp, but the glinting steel of a command is still there. “For me.”

He obeys, an instrument to her will, and places one chaste kiss on the lips of her cunt before his tongue enters her. She bucks against him, and he takes it, letting her control where he goes. Her fingers drop down to the nape of his neck, pressing him into her, his tongue going deeper. He’s completely at her mercy, every move he makes a testament to her, and her volition.

He sucks at her cunt, removing his tongue to nuzzle his nose at her clit, and when the hand in his hair tightens, accompanied by the subtlest gasp, he feels his cock tighten, and then he’s hard.

“You’re so good, Ben,” she pants. “You’re wonderful. You’re wonderful. God. Keep going.”

The more she talks, the harder he gets, until he’s sure he’ll spill right there, before she’s come herself. She’s petting him now, he realizes: hands pressing through his hair as he continues to work at her cunt.

“So good… you’re so good. Make me come.” He can feel her shuddering, underneath his touch, and he has to press a hand to his cock to still his erection. “I’m so close… _fuck_ , Ben…”

And then she feels her release, his tongue working in and out of her until she’s falling apart in his hands, bending forward to muffle screams in his hair, and he can’t help but smile into her as she collapses.

“You’re so good, Ben,” she whispers into his hair, panting. “You’re so good for me. I don’t want anyone else, ever.” She places a kiss on his scalp as he untangles himself from her skirts. “All I ever want is you.”

When he looks up, he does see a deity; the spotlights in the gallery shine behind her, illuminating her halo, and her eyes are that of a saint, blessing her loyal servant. His heart drops to his stomach.

“Then you’ll have me. Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> [The Death of Socrates](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/436105)


End file.
